Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning
by meldahlie
Summary: What was Obi-Wan thinking on the flight to Alderaan? Was Leia ever in love with Luke? And why does the scruffy nerf herder look that way? A collection of independent one-shots from the Star Wars original trilogy.
1. Second Chance

**Second chance**

What was Obi-Wan thinking on the flight to Alderaan? One-shot, ANH.

~:~:~

 _It's been a long time..._

But here we are again.

Luke Skywalker, with two droids and an appeal for help from Leia Organa. There are no coincidences in the Force. No random chance that Anakin Skywalker's daughter has sent her message – commanding, requesting, plaintively appealing by turn as it is, while remaining too brave or proud or stubborn to explain exactly what trouble has detained her from coming in person – by the twin brother she does not know of.

He does not know either. Force help me! How can I tell them?

I have told Luke Darth Vader killed his father. From a certain point of view, that is true. What I will say to his sister, I do not know. There is no hint of guidance in the Force. But I do not need to know that yet. For the moment – and that is where we are meant to live, after all – there is just myself and Luke.

Kenobi and Skywalker.

It's not a second run, not quite. These are dark days. This is certainly no royal space yacht. And the young Skywalker before me, clutching his father's lightsaber, is not Anakin. Not in the least. He looks like him, in a way, I grant you. But the person who looks out from under that sandy thatch, through those blue eyes … if he is like anyone, it is his mother. The Force from him is care and love and compassion, ideals laced with youthful confidence and naivety, not arrogance.

If you want arrogance in here, it's lounging in the engineer's seat opposite me, holding forth on 'Luck' and the merits of blasters.

Now and then he casts a glance at me. The old man, old fool, probably, in his eyes. Looking to see what I think of him. He's thinking I find him tiresome, cock-sure, loud-mouthed.

Oh, he's all of those. But if you let go, if you shut out your surface impressions and reach out with the Force instead, he's not those shallow, surface things.

He's a second chance, too.

Someone older (a little). Wiser (in some things). Steadier (pardon my arrogance!).

Someone whom random chance (as those who do not believe in the Force would call it) has flung into the paths of the Skywalkers, as they make their bright and brilliant and burning way across the galaxy. To walk those paths beside them; to have his fate bound up with them; to watch their backs and guard their steps and now and them remind them that they need to live, not just crusade, and not get too cocky, either.

Of course, to have your life saved and your view changed and your patience taxed and your heart broken, all a million times, is part and parcel for it too. And to learn and love and come to see the world a different way, as well.

I know. It is the role I used to have. But … this is no second run. Not mine, at any rate. I know. Some whisper in the Force tells me that I still have a part in all of this, but it is my last. The last ride of Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi.

It is for others to go on now. For someone else to walk beside these new Skywalkers.

Who? This I worried even as I sought Luke's company for this trip. My lot was one Skywalker, and even then, I lost him. Who could be the anchor for two of them?

Now I know.

If Luke is Padme in Anakin and Leia is Anakin in Padme, then Han Solo can only be myself.

Force keep him so!

And maybe, just maybe, he will manage to say "I love you" just a little sooner.

~:~:~


	2. Some things never really change

Some things never really change 

Han and Leia discuss? Sort of. Fluff. Blame TFA.

~:~

The heat of the argument had burned out on Hoth. Metaphorically speaking, at least: Leia had given in to reluctant laughter on realising that a heated argument was definitively ended with the subject of burning passion on a freezing planet.

At least, now reclined against Han where he had flopped back against the couch, she didn't have to see his smirk that she had managed to prove his point against her own. There had, indeed, been times in their past when she had done things simply to annoy him. Or at least one incident in the med centre on Hoth.

"I wasn't in love with him," Leia ventured into the silence, pursuing a different line of thought to get away from her consciousness of that smirk. "Not 'in love,' in love."

Was it the Force or just their – togetherness – which meant she could feel Han's expression behind her shift to quizzical, or at least quizzical-and-smug, which was an improvement on just plain smug?

She shook her head. "Not even the beginnings of it. Not compared to falling in love. But I did love him. Sooner than you." There, that shifted the smug. But now what had begun as a diversion had become a line of thought that did need finishing. Luke – before she'd known who he was-?

"I loved..." Leia paused and searched for the right way to describe it. "His innocence, I suppose. Open-hearted-ness. Confidence. Lack of hesitation and weariness and formality and all of that."

She stopped again, and sighed. There wasn't quite a word to describe Luke, now or then, but it would need to be a different word now to then. Something of that old Luke was gone from the man who was now her brother, lost along the way...

"He'll always be a dewy eyed farm kid," Han broke in gruffly. "Always. Same as you'll always be a princess." He left it a split second before adding "Your Worship."

"And you'll always be-!" Leia didn't manage to finish her sentence, for her hand was captured and her head was tipped round and Han demonstrated that he would, indeed, always be a scoundrel.

~:~:~


	3. Who you calling scruffy?

Who you calling scruffy?

A looking glass was not a modification the _Millennium Falcon_ included. But when the lights were on inside the ship and off in the hanger outside, the transparasteel windows on the flight deck were relatively reflective. Han Solo scowled fiercely at his reflection. "Who you calling scruffy?"

He scowled another moment, then brought a comb up in one swift motion and slicked his hair down. Left, right, back. All neat, all flat. Exactly as you were made to do in the Navy. It wasn't a thing you forgot. It wasn't a thing he'd forgotten how much he hated, either.

His reflection did not look pleased at this arrangement. Besides which, his hair was-?

Han squinted, and considered. Too long. That was it. His hair was too long to do that Navy slicked-bowl shape at present. It looked like something an Naval officer would have been scrubbing the decks for, for weeks, appearing like that. Much too long.

He could trim it. They probably had a bowl somewhere-

Forget it! Bowls! Scissors! Hair! Seven hells take them all! He flung the comb into the odds and ends locker beside the co-pilot seat, the one that mostly contained lost spanners and stray bolts and never-to-be-questioned _Things_ belonging to Chewie, slammed the door of it shut and ran his fingers through his hair until it stood up on end.

There! That was better! Now he felt like himself again!

 _Now you look like a wookiee,_ Dewlanna had used to say, running her big, gentle hands through his hair when he was tired. _A proper little wookiee cub._ At the time, it had been – reassuring, in a way. And it was comfortable. And easy. And after Dewlanna had died, it had seemed – well, he'd wanted to keep it that way, just like she'd liked it to be. Every slicking-down in the Naval academy had seemed like a small betrayal.

So, that was how he was! And if some princesses didn't like it – well, who cared?!

And who had room to talk, kissing a kid who was thatched like a tauntaun, not to mention going about with three miles of braids wound round her head like spare power cable on a drum?!

~:~:~


	4. First Aid

First aid

Who mended Artoo after the battle for the bunker on Endor?

~:~:~

"Commander Antilles! Commander Antilles!"

There are times when you realise why Han Solo calls Princess Leia's protocol droid the most annoying droid in the galaxy – not to mention the names he calls it when he's not sober, of course. All droids have fairly tinny voices, but C3P0's is just uniquely nerve-riling. Especially when your war's apparently just ended, and your battle's over, and you've barely got out of your X-wing and still haven't managed to find anyone you know in the crowds of knee-high furry things that inhabit this moon and are exuberantly friendly.

Umph! Yes, okay, little thing. Hey there.

That's the third one to hug me round the knees in as many minutes.

"Commander Antilles! Artoo-detoo has been damaged!"

Who's been wha–? Shavit! Sith-hells! Or, to use Luke's charming expression for when he really wants to swear but the Princess is around – Sand!

I was going to say where's Solo or the Princess or Luke – but all that matters right now is that Luke _isn't_ around! His beloved droid has taken a fairly nasty blaster hit, and he may be a super-calm Jedi or whatever now, but he'd still be pretty upset if he saw the state of Artoo now. Heck, even Mon Mothma or the Ice Princess at her iciest would be pretty upset!

"Artoo? Artoo?" Okay, maybe victory does funny things to your mind, because now I'm kneeling on a mossy forest floor, tapping the dome of a limp-looking astromech and calling to it in a tone which wouldn't be out of place in a soppy holovid.

Get a grip, Wedge.

I turn on Threepio. "Where are the tech facilities?" If we move quick, maybe we can at least get some sort of temporary repair done before Luke finds us. But Threepio flaps his hands.

"I'm sorry," he says. "These Ewoks are a very primitive society. They don't really have any sort of advanced technological development. In fact, they were so surprised to see me that they-"

Fled in terror, I imagine, but I haven't time to listen to it now. I flap my own hands at him to get him to shut up. "Fine. Have we got some spare parts? And where are Captain Solo and Chewbacca?"

I've watched them keep that amazing ship the Princess calls a bucket of bolts in full flying order since Yavin. This is only a blaster-struck astromech – they should be well capable of jerrying him back together.

Threepio practically wrings his hands this time. "I'm very sorry. Chewbacca is overseeing the evacuation of the prisoners with General Calrissian-"

Great. He's out of it, then.

"-and General Solo and the Princess went off together that way." Threepio points off along a secluded looking sort of path winding away into the forest. "I don't think General Solo would be at all pleased if I went after them."

I bet he wouldn't. Neither would Rogue Squadron. They're going to be broke if this battle hasn't finally got the Princess and Solo together.

"There are some Imperial speeders over there, if you can salvage any spare parts from them," Threepio announces.

He looks at me rather expectantly, as if I'm supposed to be pleased at this useless after-thought. What good are parts if there's no-one to do the tech work?

"Master Luke would be most upset to see Artoo in such a state..."

Had I a fellow Rogue around, I'd be taking bets on whether it'll be Luke over Artoo or Solo over the dent Calrissian's left in his _Falcon_ who countsas more Upset. Not on who'll shout louder, mark you. That one's long since settled.

But I haven't a fellow Rogue. Nothing but these Ewok things and an expectant looking Threepio and a fellow Rogue's very zapped, limp astromech. Heck! Rogues don't let each other down. The least I can do is prise his dome off and see what's happened.

Fortunately, whatever's happened has caused Artoo to stick everything out. While that means a lethal buzz-saw flopping below his unresponsive power button, it also means the hydro-spanner at the back of his storage drawer. Threepio hovers around as I start unscrewing.

"Oh, Commander Antilles! It was so terrible! Artoo was hit by a blaster just as he was unlocking the back door to the shield bunker, and I thought we were never going to get in there on time! He seemed to short-circuit..."

Tune him out. I presume it's what the Princess does, since she doesn't keep him permanently shut down or gagged. And blaster damage isn't all that's happened to Artoo since I last met him. Someone's pretty crudely drilled and bolted something onto his dome at some point, and not filled the holes when they took it off again.

"...and the hatch lifted to show..."

Bingo! Dome off, blackened innards, distinct essence of – wood smoke?

Yep, wood smoke. Don't ask … but someone seems to have gently smoked out the inside of this droid. It makes everything look much worse, all being blackened, but the actual blaster damage is a crack in the dome (cosmetic) and a couple of burnt out power flux cables joining the main power supply unit to his central processor. Simple enough – also a bit major. I just hope it hasn't affected his memory. Luke prefers his astromech with all its emotional baggage. The Rogues gave up betting on when he'd give in and have it memory-wiped long before we left Hoth – no knowing when he last had it done. 'Since the Galactic Republic' is the outside limit, given that Luke shares his birthday with Princess Leia on Empire Day.

How'd I know? Not telling. We, the Rogues, just – found it out. Gave them a smashing double party the first year after Yavin. Everybody happily legless, though it didn't solve the Princess/smuggler situation like some people hoped it might. Man, I hope this battle has. I'm going to be flat broke for months if it hasn't. Okay, never mind. Let's see if imperial speeders have frontal power flux cables you can jerry off with a hydrospanner.

Threepio comes toddling after me. "Commander Antilles! Commander Antilles! If any of my parts would be of any use, I would gladly donate them!"

Do I look like I want to dismantle more droids? Besides, if I can't get Artoo fixed, it'll only be Luke getting upset about Imperial damage to his droid. If I pry Threepio apart, I'll find myself explaining to the Princess why I dismembered her Alderaani protocol droid without so much as a by-your-leave.

"That's very kind of you..."

He might speak however many million forms of communication he's always chirping on about, but Threepio doesn't really do sarcasm. He stands there, twittering on about the battle and the Ewoks and Mon Mothma knows what else, while I start tearing these speeder engines apart. Thank all powers that be, they do indeed have power flux cables. I'm just glad I'm not the tech who's going to be trying to repair them after me. A wampa might have made a neater job.

Okay, back to Artoo. A small crowd of Ewoks follows at a safe distance, yub-yubbing at me and, for some reason, humming at Threepio. I'm beginning to feel I'm in the middle of an infant school outing. "Can you tell them to clear off for a bit?"

"Oh, Commander Antilles, they're only wanting to know if they can help in any way?"

Definitely the infant school outing... But if they're not technologically advanced, how are they meant to help in any way?

"Solvent wipes!" I suggest with a sudden brain wave. It _would_ help if I could get some of this smoke-black off and actually see what I was wiring in.

I don't speak six million forms of communication, but I can see the Ewoks look blank as Threepio translates. "A rag, then? With a drop of alcohol on it?" Heck – we've just won a major battle! Somebody's got to have a bottle of something powerful to celebrate with!

The Ewoks, apparently. And, whoof! Powerful? If droids can't get drunk on alcohol fumes, it's not going to be for want of trying. I'm feeling cheerier and whoever next sticks their head inside Artoo to do the proper repair is certainly going to get jolly.

Right now. Cable; Artoo; one end in place. Is there any point in telling Threepio that if I get fried fixing this cable in, he's to tell the Rogues to get rip-roaring drunk on my share of the betting pool? No, but I flag him over anyway. "Hold his saw blade!" The squadron would never let me live it down if I lost fingers to Luke's astromech.

Ready? Steady? Stand by!

 _Bleep! Whizz-whizz-click! Brr-rr-bloop!_

Hey! Power on, lights flash, tools retract!

 _Buzz-whirr-whirr-buzz!_

He's working! But that's not the only thing that matters. I crouch down and tap his data screen, like Luke does. "Artoo?"

 _Bip-bip?_

"You feeling OK?"

 _Bleep whirrup bleep!_

Good. Swallow hard. Million credit question: "Still remember who Luke is?"

 _Bleep bleep whirrup fuzz bleep!_

"Oh, Artoo! I'm so glad you're fully functional again! I really couldn't get along without you!"

Perhaps that's why the Princess puts up with Threepio – there are, it seems, odd times that he is rather sweet. Artoo seems to think so too, for he burbles back happily as I screw his dome on again. Then, with a thousand thanks that I wave short from Threepio, they're off down the path together.

"... and I _knew_ Commander Antilles would be able to help..."

Yeah, right. I'm a battle hardened veteran, I've just blown up the Empire's biggest weapon, and it's two battered old droids who are making me smile.

So what? They're hardly going to tell the Rogues. And if they do? A day like today, they'll drink it off in an hour or so. I'm going to find someone to report to. And get out of my flight suit. And find a glass of that Ewok ale for myself.

And I'm not particularly fussed which order I'm going to do those in.

~:~:~

 _A/N: hurt/comfort, I suppose!_


	5. Trouble

Trouble

A study in teenage frustration, dramatic irony and tragic foreboding. Missing moment from ANH.

~:~:~

Trouble. It's what Uncle Owen always says whenever he actually lets Luke go anywhere. Stay out of trouble. Don't get into trouble.

It's never given as the reason for not letting Luke go – Uncle Owen doesn't usually give reasons. Just comes up with an endless string of other chores to be done first. _Then you can run off with your friends._

It's like this evening. _Just one more season..._

Luke shifts and shuffles and turns over in bed. He's not hungry, quite. Aunt Beru had left his dinner keeping warm and waiting for him, guessing as usual he'd sneak into the kitchen and grab it later. But his stomach is sufficiently disturbed by its delayed mealtime that it doesn't seem to plan on letting him go to sleep. Either that, or his mind's too troubled to switch off.

Trouble.

Luke can practically hear Uncle Owen's voice saying it. Never with a word of explanation, of course.

" _He worries about you,"_ Aunt Beru always says, by way of explanation.

Yeah. Right.

When he was at school, it wasn't so different from what everybody else's fathers said. But now-?! What does Uncle Owen think he's going to do? Go into Anchorhead's only cantina and get rip-roaring drunk?

He doesn't have enough money to do that, for one thing – quite aside from that he simply wouldn't! It's not like there's anybody left on Tatooine who'd stand him even one drink. His friends have all gone, none of the girls ever took much notice of him anyway. Owen Lars' nephew, the moisture farmer's kid from way out back by the Dune Sea – not an attractive proposition. There aren't even any Imperial Stormtroopers to flick wamp rat dung at, on the forsaken bit of twin sun parched rock! – which is what Biggs used to laughingly suggest Uncle Owen might be thinking of, when Luke told him about 'trouble'.

Biggs. Where's Biggs now? Luke turns over and kicks at the tangling blanket round his feet. Somewhere cooler – in all possible senses of the word. Flying. Which really, really wasn't fair! Biggs wasn't the best shot! Biggs wasn't one who could go fastest up Beggar's Canyon! Biggs wasn't the one with a navigator for a father – even a disastrous, fly-by-night, never-to-be-mentioned navigator off a spice cruiser father had to give you some genetic right to be a good pilot!

The blanket's in an unendurable knot. Luke kicks it sharply off the end of the bed. Then he sits up and drags it back again. Aunt Beru has enough difficulty in life without him sweeping the floor with his blanket so it would need washing.

No, life isn't fair. But it's life in general, really. Not Uncle Owen, whatever Biggs said when he'd tried to coax Luke into just plain running away and joining the Academy with him. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru were fair. He couldn't have just betrayed them like that, run out on them like a thankless urchin. They were fair and good and worried about him like no-one else did and meant well – even Uncle Owen.

They're here for him. He has to be here for them.

But, basically, Uncle Owen would rather he stays home. Luke sits up to stare across the dark room. Stay home – forever. Work on the vaporators, help out with the harvest, sweat away in the workshop – keep his head down and his hands busy. Even watching the sunset isn't something Uncle Owen thinks highly of.

Luke sighs, and flops back hard against his pillow. Well, he does it – give or take a few sunsets. Look at today! Stayed home, stayed out of trouble, got the two new droids checked over...

So much for staying out of trouble.

Sand! If he doesn't get that little droid back in time in the morning, the mysterious girl in the hologram isn't going to be the only one in trouble!

~:~:~


	6. His Way

His Way

What happened the one time Han Solo actually left the Rebel Alliance? Missing moment from ANH.

Angst/Friendship

~:~:~:~

Space. Speed. Stars. All he ever dreamed of when he was as – well, innocent as the kid, if years and years younger.

The kid.

Han pressed the throttle harder to send the _Millennium Falcon_ even faster – in sub-light speed. From behind him in the cockpit, there was a questioning wookiee growl.

"I know what I'm doing!" Han snapped before Chewie finished. Sure, he did. He was getting out of this mess to get that debt paid off to Jabba, and nobody else's views on the matter were going to change his course. It wasn't anybody else's head on the line if that debt didn't get paid off, was it? He knew what he was doing.

And doing was the reason they were still in normal space. Lightspeed and hyperspace would get them there faster – and the faster they got there and the sooner it was over, the better – but hyperspace would leave him far too much spare time. Right now, he needed the challenge of concentration, the demands of piloting, the sheer blind speed – to block out the memory of the kid.

The fastest the _Falcon_ could go wasn't shaking off that voice.

 _All right. Well, take of yourself, Han. I guess that's what you're best at, isn't it?_

All hurt and disappointment and just a tinge of despising. Hells, but the kid was an innocent! It was murder to put him in an orange flightsuit and let him up in a X-wing, even if he was a damn good shot!

Well, so it was. He, Han, had done what he could. He'd pointed out that it was suicide and asked the kid to come with them, and Luke had said no. Then he'd looked so hurt that Han had called him back. Why he'd muttered that crazy old blessing, Han wasn't sure. But he hadn't been able to find the words for exactly what he wanted to say – heck, he hadn't even been quite sure what he did want to say! Just something, anything, that would make the kid look a little less like an orphaned day-old bantha calf, at the stage when they're all floppy fringe and gangly legs and big eyes with heartbreak down inside them because some Tusken's shot the rest of their family!

And it had worked – for a moment. Only–

The _Falcon_ simply wouldn't go any faster.

Dammit! For Luke had gone off under the ships and walked into the Princess, and Han hadn't even been looking at them, but he sure had heard Luke's voice.

He didn't imagine for one moment Luke had meant him to hear. It was simply chance, a result of the odd echoes and eddies of sound that you got in noisy hangers and docking bays all over the galaxy – quiet whispers that can be heard twelve ships away and shouts that don't make it across a cup of kaff.

 _I really thought he'd change his mind..._

Han gritted his teeth. He knew what he was doing, thank you.

Most surprisingly, the Princess had actually recognised that.

 _He's got to follow his own path. No-one can choose it for him._

Thank you, your Worship! Well, he hadn't killed her, so presumably he was beginning to like her, for all her sassy ways. So what's wrong with a girl who sasses back a bit?

Well, if something didn't happen real soon, there was going to be a lot wrong with the girl who sassed back. And the kid.

Han swivelled round in his seat. "Get the navcomputer started! And the jump co-ordinates figured! We need to get out of here!"

Chewie grumbled an answer. Han turned back to the controls with a snort. The prospect of seeing Jabba's charming features again was quite enough to put anyone in a bad mood, wasn't it? They needed to get out of here. He'd been at the back of that briefing. Those head-in-the-clouds pilots didn't stand a chance at their impossible shot, even with the targeting computers! Not to mention the laser cannon and TIE fighters and the Emperor knew what else lurking down that trench!

Han refused to let his eyes scan round the dark ahead for that sinister, moon-like sphere. They needed to get out of here. Any minute now, Yavin IV was going to go the way of Alderaan, and if they didn't get the _Falcon_ out, he'd be trying to fly her through an asteroid field again and probably joining the Rebel Alliance in little pieces!

Over my dead body... He'd said that to Greedo, but it hadn't exactly been the solution he'd planned for the whole mess with Jabba.

A mess. That was the word for all of this. Taking the old man and the kid, getting stuck on that Death Star and picking up the Princess and getting so tangled up in that Rebellion of hers in all of two days that he couldn't stop thinking, even at full throttle.

Any minute and there'd be the flash of light. Wiping out that suicidal, ever hopeful kid. Destroying the moon. Ending the Rebellion. Killing a Princess who'd never done anything more wrong than thinking she rescued herself and landing the whole lot of them in a trash compactor …

(Insulting Chewie aside, and the wookiee's grumbles could be reasonably taken as an indication that he'd got over that, so it wasn't up to Han to hold it as a grudge, either.)

She'd be all noble and high minded and say that was war.

But it was really a lot more like shooting a wookiee in cold blood.

If that debt to Jabba didn't get paid off, it would only be even more trouble in the future.

Han's grip on the joystick tightened into a fist, and then jerked backwards to send the _Falcon_ into a full reverse direction flip.

"Chewie, quit those calculations! We haven't finished here!"

~:~:~


	7. Bad Feeling About This

Bad feeling about this

An officer on the Death Star has forebodings about the latest prisoner. ANH alternative PoV.

~:~:~

The officer in charge of the detention block looked up as the doors began to slide open. They must have found someone on that old freighter after all, then.

Then his heart sank. In the doorway stood two Stormtroopers – and a Wookiee.

It would have had to be a Wookiee.

This was not good.

Wookiees _always_ had fleas.

~:~:~

 _A/N: Sorry! Couldn't resist!_


	8. Rain

Rain

 _A/N: I apologise. I had a ridiculously early start and a ridiculously late finish, and my brain came up with … this._

 _~:~:~_

Water was falling from the sky. Water – clear, cool, really water – was falling from the sky.

And Uncle Owen was running about almost as madly as Biggs at his birthday party.

Rain and Uncle Owen running were indelibly linked in Luke's mind. For there had been water falling from the sky once before, when he had been little. Maybe two, maybe three. And Uncle Owen had run then, feet pounding and splashing, until he had been as wet as Luke.

Luke had been very wet, for Aunt Beru had sat him on the doorstep of the garage and told him to stay there and sit still and get well watered, so he'd grow up to be as tall as Uncle Owen. And he'd done as he was told, and stayed quite, quite still, watching the water falling from the sky and filling the bucket beside him, until Uncle Owen had suddenly splashed out of nowhere.

He had laughed – a very rare noise – and tossed Luke up in the air – an even rarer thing – and said that Luke had collected so much water they'd have to feed him through a vaporator.

To Luke's relief at the time, that one hadn't happened.

Neither had the getting watered enough to grow as tall as Uncle Owen yet, but he had got older. Now he was eight. And that was big enough to join in this madness of grown-up running which rain, apparently, brought on.

"And all the dinner plates!" Aunt Beru called from the courtyard as she ran about spreading all the pressure cooker pans out. "And the beakers!"

The ordinary dinner plates and beakers, and the better set, and then Uncle Owen was shouting down from the top of the wall for Luke to run over to the garage and get every spare bucket out!

Splash-splash up the steps. Clang-clang of every spare bucket spread out. Plink-plink of the rain going in them. And Luke Skywalker ran, laughing.

Because water, and happiness, were falling from the sky.

~:~:~


	9. And more rain

And more rain 

A "companion piece" to the previous chapter!

~:~:~

Water was falling from the sky.

That was a funny way to think of it, Leia Organa reflected, as she sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the rain streaming down the windows. But then, she often thought of funny things, sitting cross-legged on her bed like this. Being sent to her room to sit still was the only suitable form of punishment for a princess of Alderaan who was as old as eight. That, or being made to do embroidery.

Her room was Leia's preferred option. No tangling threads, no knots that pulled loose, no aunts breathing down the back of her neck. Just peace and quiet to sit cross-legged on the bed and imagine things. Funny things. Like water falling from the sky. Or a sense of speed and flying. And a rather nebulous sense of a friend. Nebulous (Leia was pleased with that word for it) in that she'd never managed to imagine seeing him or her, whichever it was. Him, probably, Leia felt. Someone to run about and explore and have adventures with, if she could ever imagine him more fully; but in the meantime, just a sense of companionship while she was sitting here alone.

The most tangible the imaginary friend became were the times Leia's mind would imagine they were sitting to watch a sunset: a plausible excuse for why they were sitting, not running around. Then it was almost as if they could have held hands. They didn't, Leia would pretend to herself, because boys didn't like to do things like that.

It was a funny sort of sunset, too. It had two suns.

Sunset. Leia gazed rather sourly back at the window again. It didn't look like there was going to be a sunset here, tonight. It had rained for six whole days. Leia was so tired and bored from it, Mother had allowed Winter to come and play for this afternoon. But they had been stuck indoors, and they had both been tired and bored from the rain, and matters had descended into a squabble. Leia had said Winter was so tiresome, it was a wonder she hadn't died from it; and Winter had said Leia was a grouchy gungan.

At that point, Mother had got cross. Winter had been sent home, and Leia had been sent to her room.

It didn't make happy remembering.

Happiness. Leia stared at the water falling from the sky against the windows. How could you stay cross when there was water falling from the sky? So much water. Clear and cool and making happy plinking noises against the panes.

If you stood out in that torrent, you'd get wet. Gloriously, wonderfully, wet-right-through! And outside, there would be puddles, too. To splash in, or just with the raindrops falling into them to make beautiful, dizzying patterns of ever-widening circles...

…

There was consternation all over the palace of Alderaan for almost an hour before dinner, until Bail Organa found his missing daughter crouched in the rain in the palace gardens, soaked through but happily watching raindrops fall into a bucket.

She couldn't explain it.

~:~:~


	10. The scene with the trash compactor

**How did the dianoga get in the trash compactor?**

Yeah, so, idly pondering Imperial plumbing...;)

~:~:~

"But how?!" cried the Deck Officer. "How did it get in here!?"

The junior officer flung up his hands in despair – or perhaps to ward off a stray coil. "I don't know, sir! If I knew, I'd be doing something about it!"

His superior also waved his hands – possibly dismissively, possibly because the coil had just shot over his head too. "This is impossible!"

"It can't be! We've got to do something with it!"

"I didn't mean dealing with it was impossible! I meant it being here at all was impossible!"

The junior officer straightened up and attempted to assume a respectful tone. "Really, sir?" Whereupon they both had to duck again.

"This-!" cried the Deck Officer, "-is a Brand New battle station! It should not have a full-grown dianoga in the trash compactor! And certainly not one getting out into the corridor! We can't just have things jumping in and out of the trash compactor!"

"No, sir," the junior puffed in earnest agreement. "That's why I've got half a squadron of Storm Troopers pushing it back in. Er- trying to push it back in!"

The Deck Officer cast a rather despairing glance down the corridor full of Storm Troopers all heaving vainly at tentacles thicker than a fuelling hose and twice as slimy. "They have to do more than try!" he bellowed. "If Tarkin sees this, he'll have Lord Vader Force-strangling us all before you can even say 'Dianoga'!"

"If Grand Moff Tarkin comes down here and we all have to stand to attention, he won't need Lord Vader! The wretched thing will strangle us itself!"

"Don't argue with your superiors!" the Deck Officer snapped. "Push! Push! PUSH!"

"Please, sir!" the junior officer panted as the line of Storm Troopers heaved, paused, and took a few steps further _away_ from the trash compactor chute. "Don't say that! I think it's obeying you!"

~:~:~

 _A/N: For Sophia, who knows why I needed to write something Cheerful!_


	11. Idle Gossip

Idle gossip

How did Han know that Lando owned Bespin?

~:~:~

The door of the main cantina on Nar Shadaa opened with its usual squeal. In a booth at the back, Han Solo paused in scooping up his sabacc cards, and leaned back to see the newcomer.

His fellow card player raised an eyebrow. "Anyone you know?"

Han sank down again and shook his head. "Jus' checking."

"Ah." The other man peered sadly down the neck of his empty ale bottle, cast a wistful look between the bar and the small pile of credits beside Han's half-full bottle, and then shuffled his cards with bright determination. "Say, I heard there's one person you don't have to look out for any more!"

"Huh?"

"Lando Calrissian!"

Han took a long swig at his ale. "And why would I be looking out for Lando Calrissian? He doesn't hang out round here working for Jabba."

"Doesn't need to any more."

Han put the bottle down. "Any more? Never has. Lando's never been that desperate."

"Not like you and I," the other man sighed. "And he's got luckier again this time. Won a whole planet at sabacc. Bespin! Mining colony! Credits galore! Raking it-!"

"Shut your mouth..." Han yawned. "Lando wants to be respectable and all that trouble, what's that to me? You gonna deal?"

His companion slowly laid down a few tattered cards and then paused, mind clearly elsewhere. "D'ya think you or I'll ever get that lucky?"

Han tossed a couple of credits into the pool. " 'Bout as likely as marrying royalty, I'd say. Gonna finish dealing?"

~:~:~


	12. Dialogue

Dialogue

Why did Han wink at Leia at the medal ceremony? Drabble, post ANH.

~:~:~

"No! I was _not_ hitting on her!"

RAWR?

"Sure, I winked at her! That doesn't mean I was hitting on her!"

HA-RAHR?

"The poor girl was nervous! And if you couldn't see that, you weren't looking properly!"

WOR-ROR?

"Well, it worked, didn't it?"

RAWR!

"I meant, _she wasn't nervous after that_ , was she, fuzz ball?!"

~:~:~


	13. Lament, this is

Lament, this is 

Low, the ceiling is;

High, the towers were.

* * *

Bare, the plain mud walls;

Vast, the archives were.

* * *

Tangled, the swamp trees are;

Fair, the gardens were.

* * *

Harsh, the birds' call is;

Quiet, the fountains played.

* * *

Damp, the firewood is;

Easy, we thought to live.

* * *

Thick, the night mists rise;

Danger, we did not see.

* * *

Deep, the dark mud is;

Blind, the Jedi fought.

* * *

Alone, this old age is;

Many, companions were.

* * *

Gone, the temple is;

Wait, last Jedi must.

* * *

High, the dark smoke rose;

Safe, the low hut is.

~:~:~


	14. Only Love Gone Wrong

**Only Love Gone Wrong**

"Take her away!" Vader's thoughts at the start of ANH.

~:~

She is short.

He hates short women.

* * *

A senator.

He hates politicians.

* * *

Brown-haired.

He hates brown hair.

* * *

A princess.

He hates royalty.

* * *

Young.

He hates youth.

* * *

A prisoner.

He hates prisoners.

* * *

Idealistic.

He hates ideals.

* * *

A Rebel.

He hates rebels.

* * *

Argumentative.

He hates argument.

* * *

And nothing puts a strand of that fancy hairstyle out of place.

He hates ornamental hairstyles.

Especially on capable women.

~:~:~

 _A/N: I found some notes waiting to be written up into a one-shot. I skimmed through them, and realised they actually made a sort of modern poem a bit like Yoda's [previous chapter], except different, because one of them is a Jedi and the other is a Sith!_


	15. Force Sensitive

Force Sensitive 

A late night conversation, post RotJ.

~:~:~

"Luke? Luke?"

The echoes picked up the name. _Luke … Luke … Luke … Luke...?_

Back from the furthest corners of the hanger: _Luke … Luke … Luke … Luke...?_

Finally, one of the support ladders beneath an X-wing seemed to move. The still figure leaning on it lifted their head from resting on the rungs. "'m here!"

 _Here … here … here … here,_ the echoes repeated. But the questing footsteps ignored the thousand misdirections. They came briskly down the line of X-wings and stopped at the nose of Commander Skywalker's ship.

"Kid."

"Han."

There was a pause, then a sudden beam of light, as Luke snapped a torch on. "You'd have seen me if you'd brought a light, you know. Save you having to shout and wake the whole base."

"Nah," said Han. "You ever take a light into a shut-down space port at night?"

Luke seemed to consider this. "No."

"Yeah." Han folded his arms and leaned against the nearest support strut. "Believe me, you don't want to. Never find what you were lookin' for, but plenty of what you weren't lookin' for."

"Shouting's better?"

"Sure. Everyone hops round the corner."

"Or shoots you...?"

"Nah," Han repeated. "'Cause they think that to be yelling like that, you've gotta be in some way that you're not worried about bein' shot at."

Luke put his head back against the ladder rung. "Right."

"What's up?"

"What do you mean, what's up?"

"You didn't even roll your eyes!"

Luke shrugged one shoulder slightly. "That's Leia's job..."

"You do it too."

Luke sighed. "I guess I'm tired, then."

"If you're tired, you oughta be somewhere other than out here at the dead of night." Silence. "Like in bed? Asleep?" Silence. "And no, you're not on duty. I passed ol' Hobbie on duty in the watchroom on the way in here. Snug as a bug in two blankets and snoring his head off."

There was still silence. Han sighed loudly enough for the echoes to pick it up and huff at each other all round the hanger. "C'mon, Kid. Don't tell me you're meditating. No." Han shook his head as Luke finally raised his head and looked round. "I was a kid during the Clone Wars, remember? And the Jedi may not have featured very highly where I was, but we all knew _something_ of them – and that included that they didn't meditate propping up the sides of their X-wings at three o'clock in the morning. There – that fetched you."

Luke shuffled and sighed. "Okay, yeah, fine."

"We hafta play Twenty Questions like when I'm tryin' to get outta Chewie what's the matter with him?"

Luke sighed again. "It's over," he said, not lifting his head off the ladder rung. "All over. The Empire, the fighting..."

"Don't tell me you're sorry ol' Palpatine's dead, Kid," Han quipped, and Luke chuckled despite himself.

"Not Palpatine, no." He shuddered. "No … no, no."

There was another long silence. A few dust flecks drifted in the beam of torch light, but nothing else moved. Finally, Luke sort of sagged against the ladder. "It's everyone else who's dead. From the Rebellion. All the ones who've died. Died," he repeated, "died. It's over, and – they're still dead. I couldn't sleep," he finished, his voice as limp as his pose. "That's all."

 _All … all … all_ … said the echoes. _All … all … all …_

"It's called Survivor's Guilt," said Han suddenly. "You lived, they didn't." He drummed his fingers slowly on the handle of his blaster, gaze fixed firmly on the far side of the hanger. "And maybe there's a reason why, and maybe there isn't, but it sure feels like there isn't when it comes back and hits you in the night."

"You gotta live with it," he added abruptly. "I don't mean 'Tough – put up with it!' I mean – you gotta _live_ withit; channel it; make it the reason you get outta bed, so it's not the thing that hits you in the night. You gotta live," Han nodded, raising one eyebrow at Luke. "Like they wanted you to. Do what they'd have wanted you to. And keep that gut-punch with you, as the reason to turn round and go back when you realise you're _not_ doing what they'd have expected you to."

His gaze moved back to the shadows. "After you've seen one wookiee die," he said slowly, "you don't shoot the next one."

"You know," Luke mocked back to cover the awkwardly raw emotion he could feel behind Han's words. "For someone who didn't believe in the Force, you're pretty good at reading minds-"

"Kid, your face is like an open book!"

"-and knowing when someone needs to talk," Luke ploughed on determinedly. "And where to find them."

"That one's nothing!" Han tossed back with a yawn that tried to pretend it was a drawl. "You try sleeping with a Force sensitive–"

Luke flung up his hands. "She's my sister – I don't want to know!"

"We were Asleep!" Han objected indignantly. "Nothing else! At least I was! Then your sister kicks me awake! ' _Luke's bothered! He needs someone to talk to! Go and find him!_ _By his ship!_ _'_ So-" Han shrugged. "Here I am."

Luke put his forehead back against the metal of the X-wing, and shut his eyes. It was cold, but it wasn't cold enough to block out the warmth Han's words had left, or to stop a half-smile creeping across his face. "Thanks, Han."

Han yawned properly this time. "Any time. I'm getting used to it."

Luke opened one eye to glance sideways at him. "To what? Leia kicking you?"

"Should have expected it, with your surname," Han continued, this time the one ploughing on determinedly. "Always having to talk one or other of you down off the ceiling."

~:~:~

A/N: And a Merry Christmas to all the Star Wars fans!


	16. Rogue Valentine

Rogue Valentine

Sweethearts' day in the Rebel Alliance. Spoof valentines abound. But who should the last one go to?

~:~

A/N: Owing to offensive M+ material posted as a review, I've deleted this fic as a stand-alone story and am putting it here instead. Many thanks to all genuine reviewers :)

~:~

"...she works kriffing hard and makes our puny budget go into hyperdrive!"

"What's up?" Luke Skywalker closed the door of the store room off the main hanger which the X-wing pilots had currently appropriated as a sort of off-duty lounge. It had a few duraplast chairs scattered about it, one forlorn padded flight seat shedding foam stuffing from every seam, which had been salvaged from a crashed X-wing, and a single table stolen from the officers' mess hall. The small group of Rogues huddled around this on make-shift stools of empty power cable drums all jumped at his voice.

"Thank you for the cards, by the way," said Luke, crossing the room and drawing out a stool for himself. He grinned. "I recognised Wedge's handwriting on the third one, even though it claimed to come from Rose in the canteen."

Wedge Antilles groaned. "I knew people would! That's why we had Hobbie writing them – until we discovered he can't spell 'Rogue'!"

"Can't-"

"And she never gets any fun like the Princess does with Solo hitting on her," Hobbie interrupted with the determined tone of one going back to a previous argument rather than opening any further discussion of his spelling.

"Am I missing something?" said Luke, looking enquiringly back at Wedge.

"It's Sweethearts Day," said Wedge reluctantly, "and Tycho managed to get in a big pack of pink paper, so we were, er..."

"Flooding the place with spoof Valentines?"

"It was meant to be fun!" Wes broke in. "But this idiot wants to send the last one to Mon Mothma!"

"She works kriffing hard, she makes our puny budget stretch into hyperspace, and she doesn't get the fun the Princess has with Solo hitting on her!" Hobbie repeated hotly. "She deserves something! And it'll go to waste otherwise! We'll have lost it in a dozen evacuations before Sweethearts Day comes round next year!"

"I'm hoping the new base on Hoth will save us from a few evacuations!" Luke protested.

"We'll have frozen a dozen times instead," Hobbie muttered.

Wedge sighed. "Hobbie, you have a point – about the card, I mean, not Hoth! But you still can't go sending spoof valentines to your commanding officers – er, _senior_ commanding officers–"

"She'd think you were being funny," Wes put in. "Funny-not-nice, not funny-ha-ha."

"And it's my sheet of paper," Tycho added.

"She works kriffing hard, she makes our puny budget stretch into hyperspace, and she doesn't get the fun the Princess has with Solo hitting on her!"

"If you say that again we'll put the flight chair down your throat!"

"She works kriff-"

"We can," said Luke suddenly.

"Put the flight chair down his throat?!" Wedge boggled, as if his commander might have finally taken leave of his senses.

"Nooooo!" Luke shook his head. "Send Mon Mothma a card."

"But–"

"A sincere card." Luke reached forwards, prised the paper from under Hobbie's startled grip, and folded it briskly in half. "Let me write it, you can draw hearts or whatever you like on the front in a minute, and we'll all sign." He scribbled rapidly under the gaze of four startled Rogues, and then slid it across to Wedge. "There – what do you think?"

~:~:~

Fifteen standard minutes later, Mon Mothma stood, staring down at the contents of the envelope which had just slid under her door. One folded piece of pink paper, with a very wobbly Rebel Alliance Eagle sketched on the front, and a brief message inside:

 _To Mon Mothma,_

 _With our sincere respect and admiration,_

 _L. Skywalker, W. Antilles, D. Klivian. T. Celchu, W. Jansen_

 _on behalf of The Rogues._

She shook her head at it. Then she went and filed it very carefully in the durasteel Number 1 Dispatch Box that got evacuated first every time the Rebel Alliance had to move base.

~:~:~


	17. Farewell

Farewell

Two friends parting. Missing moment, ESB.

~:~:~

A/N: So, a blizzard and a misty night set me thinking … that I had never met a version of this explanation! Here's a go at remedying that :)

~:~:~

The tail-light of the X-wing shone above them, a pinprick in the darkness, a vanishing star. Then the boy must have started the hyperdrive to jump into lightspeed. The last fleck of light blotted out. And still the last Jedi and the Force ghost of his former pupil stood in the marshy darkness and gazed up into the sky.

The mists rose, slowly, wreathing past them like blue wood smoke. Shadows crept out of the trees, as black as the sky they watched. Finally, a night bird whirred past in the darkness, with its harsh, creaking call. Obi-wan stirred and looked down. "Go in, you should."

"Eight hundred years too young you are, to tell me that," the older Jedi retorted.

Obi-wan chuckled. "Don't you remember how often Qui-Gon used to end up with the Healers when the Living Force had called him into the gardens quite regardless of the rain and night mist?"

"Despair of the Healers, you two were," Yoda observed. "Always, one of you sick."

"Two," Obi-wan echoed thoughtfully. He looked back up at the sky where the X-wing had vanished, and then down at Yoda. "One other?"

"Yes."

Another long pause in the night mist.

"Leia?

Yoda inclined his head solemnly. "Call to each other, they can."

Perhaps to mark this point, the unseen bird in the darkness called again, then flapped away with a clatter of wing beats. Obi-wan considered. "She is feistier," he said slowly, and then chuckled once more. "You would find blaster holes in your hut!" He turned slightly, gathering his robes and the blue Force glow about him like a cloak. "For the present, then, I must go."

Yoda looked up at the sky, and then folded his hands over his stick and bowed. "Wait, I must."

"Indoors," Obi-wan reiterated with sudden firmness. "Which ever one of them comes, you need to be here, Master Yoda."

They looked at each other in silence, and then Yoda bowed again. "Here, I will be. Eight hundred years, I have been. My word, you have."

~:~:~


	18. Insult?

Insult?

Why didn't Chewie mind the names Leia called him on the Death Star? Missing moment, ANH.

~:~

"What d'ya think of her? What d'ya think of her?!" Han Solo punched the moulding on the Falcon's cockpit window. "What kinda question is that?! I'm tryin' not to, that's what!"

Chewie folded himself carefully into the co-pilot's seat. "Ha-rawr?"

"Yeah, I'm tryin' not to! C'mon, she even insulted you!"

"Ha-rawr?"

"She did! Called you a walkin' carpet!"

Chewie shook his head. "Rah-rawr..."

"Yes she did! I heard her! Couldn't help it, I was standin' right beside her!"

"Raaawr..."

"Don't give me those sort of noises. Walkin' carpet, she said – and that is insultin'!"

"Raaawr..."

"Whaddya mean, you don' mind?"

"Raaawr..."

"A walkin' carpet? She called you a walkin' carpet and you Don't Mind?!"

"Hrah-rawr."

There was a long and silent pause. Han's eyes narrowed. He looked sideways at his co-pilot. "A walkin' carpet and you Don't Mind?" he repeated incredulously. "Are you tryin' to tell me Mala calls you a walkin' carpet? As some kinda endearment?!"

"HAH-RAWR!"

~:~:~


End file.
